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"Everything they'd do to ensure a better life, yet I'd fail 'em when it mattered most… Why deserve a damn thing anymore?"
Standing at the riverbank, the cuts of such memories would again bleed inside, again crash and roar about in contrast to waters beneath. No crueller scenario to have created, than one without their guidance or perspective—mere musical pause, of all things, to kick off such sorry years.
Spent an age just staring, it'd seem, as upon hearing a callout he'd take off down the street, praying to avoid any further probes. Even to have that extraordinary lady on his side, still couldn't help but wonder if he was worth any burden, whether he deserved that Admiral's dirty deed from the beginning.
Thoughts to still burn throughout bus rides and stair climbs—topping it off, some tablet and its mystery scanner to notice after turning his key. No evidence of weaponry or anything wicked, even to welcome either, but did get the abrupt appearance of Morbo's hologram, his shout to require a change of jeans.
"DON'T YOU DARE MOVE, PUNY EARTHLING! Join us, won't you, as Morbo brings you his galaxy-exclusive, one-on-one with one of your Milky Way's greatest conservationists."
After title cards of 'Tea with Titans', a virtual reality to somehow take over; caught himself wandering about a hunter's cabin, observing a luxurious side of life going by the ornate, gold-lined furniture and crockery. A slurp of liquid to get his attention; green one to utterly dwarf his guest, who himself made Hermes look slimmer than a streetlight.
"Oh hello, Morbo here sipping this delightful English Breakfast—"Used to be"—by special invite, inside this incredible set. THANKS FOR JOINING US, SIR ARCHBURY!"
"Greetings Morbo, great pleasure to be had," he'd hear the reply. "But please, do call me Reginald."
Crook of his spine to shiver doubly inward; apprehension for noting Archbury's gentlemanly suit and moustache, and absolute disgust for how he'd speak; reminders of ancient members of parliament, who'd oversee their 'Town of Tomorrow' and leave it as a dumpster fire.
"Saints alive, if only I had a car… Sounds so slick, his own mouth could fuel it."
"So Reginald, riddle me this. Going by your public financial records"—glasses brought out—"you've taken in hundreds of millions of dollars, donating most to several causes bearing your name, yet evidence of positive ecological impacts remain slim. Why do you believe that is?"
"Sadly, I'm but one man against millions; all to forget the follies of GGB2052, any of its preventable lead-ups, or indeed its near-disastrous return to my beloved city. Against our collective and viral free will, Morbo, our dear Mother Earth has long desired to unleash her direst cure against us… And if neither my genius nor great big cheques can stop it, that's just a matter of when."
"Bet he heads a fertiliser factory or two, guy's so full of sh—"
"Your saying so seems to contradict, however, that far from forgetting or not caring, New New York has been garbage-free for over 500 years, even taking that garbage ball's return into account. Why insist, then, that such doomsday threats are imminent? And what plans would require such galactic funding?"
"Goodness gracious me, why are these grand cookies going to waste? By all means, let's have some."
Archbury to grab a handful and snack at a steady pace, while Morbo would seize and devour the rest, plate inclusive. Guest to not be impressed at all, but it did allow a moment to measure his next words.
"Concerning our citizens, I'll admit to a certain alarmism; that we'd rise and become leaders of Earth's cleaner future, I can't deny such extraordinary efforts. However, never doubt that the seeds of old, filthy societies still linger among us—while certain anomalies have done exemplary services to combat that, we know of others who DON'T inspire such confidence…"
Word of 'anomalies', or any connection therein to scratch his temple—never caught the glare before it got redirected, over a question about any events coming up.
"Does an ursine defecate in the forest? One month from now, at none other than the Metropolitan, I'll be hosting my annual Audience with Archbury gala. All esteemed guests will enjoy quality time—my guarantee—among the alphas from all across the Milky Way… But as always, I sell out fast, so be buying or be crying."
Was about to flip his fingers, but couldn't go through before curiosities began to pique; heating up old takeout, he'd soon be imagining the who's who of famous faces, pondering the history of the host to explore, and thinking of which speakers, refreshments and entertainment would attract such a crowd.
"No harm done to query this quality time, right? Surely there's a story or two worth digging up."
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"Ohhh, quit being such a drama queen! These Netsuits were worth the lives of those rhesus monkeys, I don't care what you say."
Early mornings and rainy rides to begin his latest side quest, one that'd quickly lead to a series of cybernetic helmets, gloves, and boots ripped off from 80s sci-fi, wholesale. Instant regret upon reveal, however, as the stench burnt his insides like infernos, threatened to take his breakfast from him too.
"Who are you kidding, boss? Think you murdered the whole bloody zoo, never mind the monkeys."
"However many I'd murder, it matters not. Not to get grand-scale Internet access; great for cheap downtime, and definitely for what's out there to seize."
"Fancy that, and to think all I needed was a box—spread his hands—yay big, called 'em modems in my day. No dead animals needed, either."
"You simple folk and your quaint ancient lives, it's so adorable. How 'bout I get you set up, sweet child, so you can—"
"Sure, if you're offering I'd appreciate it. Got a thing or three to really get myself up-to-date on."
More than his boss he'd tangle with those bulky cords, spit a curse or two to himself, 'till the former finally logged in and began their process of connection. One button to soon encompass him in blue orbs of light, convert his bag of fat and facial fuzz into some strange, electric avatar.
Moments later, to feel 'dust' swirl over his feet, he'd find himself gazing upon a gigantic virtual world, gorge to give a perfect view of the big city just beyond the horizon. Upon approaching the edge though, he'd find his path blocked by some squawking creature, one that'd flash an escort service in his face; instant dashing of high hopes, as he'd punch the creature's cross to wipe it out.
"Quaint and ancient, am I?" he spat, as pills and pumps soon took after him. "Blockers were free in MY time, Gods-dammit!"
Visage of the Professor to pop in: "Language, Mayweather. And I'm sorry, but all those were outlawed in 2247; obscure First Amendment clause to create the ruling, so I heard."
Not the news he needed to hear, as they continued to dive-bomb and dogpile him, fighting for the privileges of bleeding his eyes, and especially his wallet. An eternity of slapping crosses, seemingly, before he could wrestle himself free, take flight for and explore the city already rendered ahead.
"Pfft, love how I travel, but still failing to see the hype here. Adult chat rooms and games, so-called promised lands of love, quite sure they were out and about. Hell, to make a fling searching site out of DuckDuckGo, only needed a letter change or two."
Time and place perhaps to let false loves tempt him offside—instead spoke to himself about having a place to search. Returning to the skies, it wouldn't be long before a medieval fortress would generate and fizzle in; reminders of choice hangouts for overhearing how any subject, in moments, could rival even the former Google for results.
Once inside, could've wasted ages staring from that perpetual stretch of terminals, both sides, to that monolithic network of tubing above each. Powers beyond orders of magnitude, to render this Earth's worth of websites physical; grateful whispers of skipping breakfast as he'd stretch his knuckles, found a free seat, and got to typing.
Acronyms to return ancient associations, companies and conventions at first, until he'd discover that gala lurking near the bottom. Next to no warning upon his click, which'd suck him up with a holler; loop-de-loops, long inversions and lightspeed to leave him fairly ill and, for soon crashing hard, in quite the daze.
But even to try clearing the cobwebs and nausea, he knew that no-one could be clear-headed enough to confront what he did next. Fell to his arse and fast, for seeing this new world created from every king's ransom and fabled myth of legend… On his family's graves, El Dorado had been resurrected, only with skyscrapers over pyramids.
"Hoooooooly… And I thought that Mom maniac was made of money."
More or less a Mancave of Wonders, he had to believe; tough choice by itself to imagine where the answers were, if any, until a series of arrows led him towards the closest of many titanic towers. And to reveal and investigate the prices with a click or two, only one immediate, obvious conclusion to draw.
"Five figures just for entry? A quarter-mill to be called a bigwig, MINIMUM? Good grief Reggie, you're more hopping mad than a roo on steroids."
Harsh judgement, however, to explore and be led about—any appeal to become clearer, decisively so, for learning of events to come. Samplings of premium alcohols and cuisines, the presence of—private time extra—pedigreed heads in conservation, and those'd be only the appetisers. Already quite the jewel to imbue in any city's crown, and this list to look far from complete.
"Ain't any gathering for goofs like us, fair dinkum… Personally, I'm quite okay with that."
"Yo, Thomas, you have any idea what the time is? Get your ass outta there and get up here."
Captain's head to rip off his suit, pelt through HQ in a panic; already nine o'clock by the time he caught his breath at the lockers. Only last names to avoid further trouble, once he lathered up and leapt into roll call, before Mr. Conrad called for silence.
"Alright people, before we begin our day, a quick word… Received this, real early this morning."
Photocopies handed 'round the table, and among the Captain and her colleagues, a rage to grow alongside serious regret. Such a rambling, for its apparent spread across the universe, to no doubt scorch the earth under Planet Express itself.
"So, before we start filing for premature bankruptcy, anyone care to explain? Anyone at all?"
The silence to continue growing, but in so doing, would come to experience an epiphany borne from ancient knowledge. Ideas had of old news and social media, whatever he had left anyway, to pick out particular details; fits of chuckles to burst forth, and earn Hermes' ire.
"Ya kiddin' me, idiot? 'De hell's so funny?"
"Conrad, mate, ever heard about those three little birds? Yeah, take a lesson from Marley now and again, would ya?"
"What are yuh talkin' bout? Do I look like a guy who loves music?"
"Ooof, my apologies then. Let's just say, for giving this a glance, that this one's of no concern."
"Why do you sound so sure?"
"For starters, I'm just amazed that you can't tell ink from font, given all the forms you do. Second, the guy was reduced to nobody, and he's still desperate to believe otherwise. Screw that sorry prick, we've got better—"
"Dat's not a ting we say about our customers, I don't care who he was! I'd suggest yuh smarten up, or else I'll—"
Point had on any other occasion, but here in particular, could only throw up hands and leave. For never seeing those chiefs outside their office or lab, seemed pretty clear that he could only trust those on bridge…
Least they could sympathise about the dangers, the craziness of being spaceship couriers.
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"Amy, you've got my seat. Thomas, I'd like a word."
To get an expectant eye for each hesitation, had to wonder if this was yet another attitude adjustment. Arriving at Mess Hall, there was nothing to discuss that he hadn't already—nor wanted to—and this wasn't the time to let HQ's backlog take a back seat.
"Captain, I know I created a scene again, but could we please forget it? I never meant—"
Finger over his lips, then would arc up as his air supply got squeezed out; began to soften for realising these were old balcony embraces, now paid in kind. Remembered getting those with pride in better times, or indeed, whenever he'd question the worth of living.
"Listen, about last night, I'm real sorry things got so carried away… Really worried me to watch you storm off."
"Ahhh, not like I can fault ya. Given the showers, any candid chats shoulda been obvious. Besides, seemed apt that the devil would speak after I spoke of angels… To lose them and be cast out, he'd become the head to my heart, so to speak."
"Is that why you turned to drink? To keep that pain quiet?"
"Please Cap, my Celtic blood made 'em a part of life. Was just when the gold and silver days got corrupted, when the good days grew absent, that they'd consume and define my life."
"Care to enlighten me?"
"Hate to sound so crass, but picture a kid giggling to sleep, over wicked stories on sketch toys. Picture a loving group gathered at box screens or backyards, games growing wilder with every play. Picture the beautiful meals, at home or had out, the giving cheers to health, fortune and happiness… When all you can dream of now is that one stupid choice, you'd do anything to get such memories back."
"Thanks for the warning, and hey, you can't blame yourself so much. Especially to not expect any visitors at all."
"Regardless, I can't commit to anything when I've SO much crap to clean up. They're all my burdens to bear, before anything else, and that's the bottom line."
Returning to the stars rushing past, he began to think about the years that might've been, until a sudden flash of memory would energise his mind. One he might've made mention of too, before he'd get his arse minced to pieces.
"Say, I don't s'pose you caught that interview on 'Tea with Titans' last night?"
"For all the streets walked and lines stood in, you're the first to tell me. What's on your mind?"
"Well, when I got home, I'd find some tablet and scanner inside; no idea how, but ended up in some VR situation. From there, heard the words of some tree-huggin' toffee-nosed twat, gabbing on 'bout free will, the faults of society, his genius and whatnot. Even to have marbles and wet cement, couldn't shut the guy up… The name Archbury ring a bell, by any chance?"
"Of course it does! In fact, for all his awareness campaigns and causes, he's quite the champion of our environment. So, he's in town now?"
"Says he will be next month. Thought I'd ask if you knew anything 'bout that gig of his, hosting at some Metropolitan or—"
Chorus of snorts and laughs to stop him cold; thankful prayers that Amy had been given the wheel.
"Buddy, if he's hosting at the finest arts centre on Earth, you can bet your life that we're off the guest list. Best laugh I've had in many a week though, so thanks."
"Quite frankly, I wouldn't wanna go if he paid me. Besides, seen much better back home."
Co-pilot's callout to scamper them both to bridge; imminent approach to Spectrus-19 for the Captain to claim Bessie back. Any other job to be SSD'd, of dozens still to clear, least until their destination would roar right into view.
"Well, give shit a gold bracelet, and make it a saint… Ohhhh my."
Such a starburst to knock his knees and skyrocket his heartrate, imagining a supernova made of Skittles. Rueful for knowing they'd nothing to record this, he did everything in his power to drag things out—even to note Bessie's audible cracking, no concern needed. The aurorae of Norway to never compare; when his Captain hurried him inside and hustled through the job, was quick to object.
But any protests to quickly prove short-lived, when a whirling unease would overwhelm him, and he'd experience a sudden purge from both ends. No way to scream as every system began grinding to complete halts; lucky man to be on bridge as the ladies would activate Bessie's AI, and began hauling arses to get him to Med-Bay.
Would only be semi-aware of the IV solutions inserted under his wrist, of the bonds to begin passing particles out of his body, until he gained enough strength to mumble for sweet release. Both the lethal fallout and life-saving treatment to rear their hideous heads, in returning him again from certain death.
Dead tired, beyond disgusting, too sick to eat and starving mad… Least of his problems in that laundry list, and none of them deserving of any pity.
"Don't go complaining to us, idiot. Now, all that poison's gotta pass first, otherwise any miracles we apply will just be eaten away. So while we decontaminate, before doing YOUR job, think on that."
Every second like a minute, and every minute stretching to hours, as he did nothing but created a vow and made a mantra of it… Enough finding out consequences for fucking around, end of discussion.
When the day was over, and he'd be finally cleared with a cream rub, he'd almost rip through Bessie in trying to escape. Between arriving and leaving—burning his clothes then streaking out sight unseen, could've made Maggi noodles look like molasses; after this episode, didn't want to answer to anyone.
Gossip rags by his doorstep, upon arriving back at the pad; plans of making mulch of them, but for their dog-eared bookmarks to investigate. Editor notes upon opening; regarding candid shots, seemed that Archbury had achieved an uncanny knack of secrecy despite any status as a 'prized target'—world of questions for THAT impressive feat.
"Dude's his own anomaly, to so avoid the masters of hiding and capturing… If ever I get famous, damn sure oughta learn a thing or two."
No idea how they got here, but knew that between virtual worlds before and magazines now, he had real cause to be worried.
Didn't feel better in days to come either, especially with regards to combing Archbury's city of gold. No origins nor beginnings, no regaling of exploits at length, and no legacies of what came in between; given interviews and impressions had, a complete surprise. All he had to go from were the busts of gold and marble, the dozens all over to really strike him as suspect.
"Jeez, sure got tickets on yerself, for all yer preachin' to everybody. So why so eager to bury your stories?"
Mysteries of Archbury's past, and mystery visitors of late for exploring, to grow unsure of returning; decision made then to dust his hands and do something of actual worth. As his Symphod hovered beside, he'd grab a mop, squeegee and instant soap bucket, give a glance toward Bessie. For keeping him safe, thought she deserved being given a good polish.
Working the windows and fortified shell, would try to compose himself—not just with imaginary batons—to collections timeless; vinyl records, cassette tapes, CD albums, live concerts, soundtracks, and even YouTube rips. Happier times to get hooked on classics, thunder along to his heritage, or experience worlds of euphoria through his Sennheisers.
Such frequencies now lost, perhaps forever, to be exiled by the last link he had left. For the world's greatest Mum, tireless in her pursuit of a proud home, drawls of "Thank you, thank you very much" in imitation of her favourite. And finally, tears shed over memories of Australian radio, of special drives where Mayfields senior and junior would indulge.
"Despite the things I'd give now, there's no taking them back… Here's to this idiot's tale, and cleaning its mess."
"Yo, Thomas!"
A sudden piercing sound to stagger back and almost overboard; hand over chest and heart in his throat, to hear the Captain's whistle, and spot her leaning casually over the rail.
"What are you tryna do lady, set off a cardiac attack?"
"Ah, so here's where you've been. Was gonna axe if you were okay, for all the overtimes and early starts of late."
"Aside from needing new pants, I think so. Was hoping to learn about Archbury's story at first, now just taking a chance to reminisce on smooth golden magic. Anyway, what can I do ya for?"
"Well, usually I'd have evening plans, but none wanted in tonight."
"Why not Zoidberg?" he'd grin.
"Hey, watch it wise-guy. So anyway I figured that maybe, after your invite, I don't know…"
"You'd more or less throw us a quick little get-together?"
"The offer's there, if you wanna take it."
"Ehhh, why not? Bessie's clean can wait. I'll just go freshen up first, alright?"
Both to deserve a simple drink and casual chat, he told himself, after the efforts to deliver their backlog. Most of it, that he knew of, in spite of troubles both his or otherwise.
Perhaps Hermes' heart would grow above microscopic—so at least several sizes—when Monday came calling.
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Were she a betting woman, she'd wager that no-one would dare be caught dead inside this tiny slice of paradise.
Few miles of pounding pavement only to come back to Cookieville-lite; portholed shipwreck of peeling green walls, stained burgundy rugs, and oak stairs worn by years of ups and downs. But against everything before, and in spite of anything after, she could still call this her home.
Night-time to arrive when she'd scan her index to invite herself and Thomas in; latter's grin to widen then drop just as sudden, as they both took in her enormous television, that solitary armchair, those blank-white walls, and a lonely doorframe leading out of there.
"Bloody oath lady… for all the money you must've made, you decide to return here? Guess it's erm, cosy and all, but—"
"Apart from me being used to having nothing, how would YOU spend our good fortunes, hmm?"
A scoff had for an answer that never came, unless one counted stutters, stupefied blinks, and beaten shrugs as such.
"I rest my case. Having said that, I had been thinking of a couple of plants, maybe a new window. What do you think?"
"Little green really wouldn't go astray. Swear, feel like I'm missing a straitjacket just standing here."
"And you've been in here how long? Twelve seconds, tops? Talk to me when you manage twelve MONTHS by yourself. Which reminds me, go straight through, take the last right, then right again."
Directions to return her to her bedroom, the lone window where she'd glimpse that hysterical child beneath, and go ahead on one gruesome choice. Initial, once-endless regrets for trying to make amends, only to be replaced by grateful whispers.
"Rather surreal to actually be inside, remembering where I was… But we're not here over that fateful night, right?"
"Guilty as charged, but it's been something I've needed off my shoulders. Bed's yours."
Hearing knees slapped with odd rhythms, her hand would fish through her bedside table, until it would heave out her photo album. 'Happy Memories', indeed, that no-one—not even at HQ—had any prior knowledge of; secrets she hoped would remain so as she flicked to the final page.
"Literally from birth, this letter would convince Warden Vogel of my alien roots, place me under the state's care. Almost thirty damned years, and still can't crack that code—worse yet, don't have the slightest clue on who originally wrote it."
"Puh, you're not kiddin'… DNA sequences, scissors on LSD, lightning zaps, and broadcast towers among these characters? Doubt even Baker Street's finest could figure it out. What good stuff went into its creation, and where can I sample some?"
"Hey, do you mind? Letter might look like a joke, but it's still personal to me."
Quick apologies to accept before she'd travel backwards in time, first photos to recall of older orphans cradling her, moments before judgement. Mere months old when they'd seat her among rusted robot parts and busted TVs, snapped photos with a stolen camera, then ran giggling for their lives.
"Abandoned Property, can you imagine? Don't know how long I cried my lungs out, starving and covered in my filth, before Warden found me. Yet looking back, I kept wishing that'd been the worst of it."
Elementary age among her next shots; thick eyeglass and smile of braces outside the Orphanarium, while two other children would point and jeer out of a first-floor window.
"Warden's photo to present our case for funding, sure you can imagine why for hanging out there. That smile of mine to be 'encouraged', under threats of blame for our Mayor cutting back again… Food and lodging first to go, as if we ever had enough."
Her senior prom up next, fancy-ish attire and all; so-called special treat for surviving to graduation, where most others didn't. Should've been her ultimate triumph to that point, one's hand in hers as a bonus, except that wasn't how her fairy-tale fantasy would end.
"Day I earned my black belt, those cowards chose to keep any tough talk to themselves. Thought I finally earned my peace, to know I could trade childish insults for broken noses… That taped 'X' you see? Beginnings of my ungraceful exit, when I'd be drenched hair to heel in cold, greasy soup broth."
Her story put on hold to find Mayfield flushing red, veins out his neck, a jaw clenched to crack teeth. Might've rigged himself to explode, if she hadn't motioned to settle down.
"If ever I find those snot-nosed little shits, they're gonna get a reunion they'll—"
"Be doing them a favour, really. That I remember nowadays, most 'of em are on the streets fighting the shakes, or selling their own body to survive. Much as I sometimes hear my wails or their mocking farewells, I'd be the one who laughed last."
That to really cool off tempers, along with showing him her best for last, the actual happy memories.
In front of ochre-red studio walls, wrapped tight in one arm, her head nestled on Fry's shoulder. Riding the Mecha-Hexadecapus, wild flails and screams aplenty—his tight grips to her too. A hand-in-hand stroll down Monument Beach, over sand and sea, to goof off among the wonders of an ancient world. And finally, the laydowns and chin-cradled grins by his side, whispers of 'overtime' to shiver him.
"Do you understand, Thomas? My entire life, through all my adventures, THAT was the love I'd always crave. And like an absolute idiot, I'd take most of Fry's for granted. Every high, every low, and every day, he'd offer his shoulder to lean on… 'Till the day came when I couldn't.
"I'm so sorry. Even for having my own, yours is a heartache I'd wish on no-one."
Appreciative rub of knee to think about closing her book, end this journey right there, until a page slipped just enough for costumes to catch his eyes. Album almost snatched out of her hands, to resign herself to reliving that little side hustle.
"Whoa, wow…"
Better days of beating crime to admit to; never got old leaping confidently into action—sometimes for serious commercial dollars. Same said for the fancy footwork that left any fiends out cold, as well as having the collar of such crooks in hand, posing for the press on nonchalant sides.
"Hottest caped crusader of the city, and among the only ones really. Gee, gotta wonder why."
Wry smile to remember Rat King's constant need for pictures—even against calls to crimes in progress—that'd become giggles as Thomas grew bored. Such fun and games to be short-lived, though, when her collection would hit the carpet, and he'd hyperventilate while gripping his neck.
"What, what is it kid?"
"Chriost dean trocaire, it can't be…" Eyes out his head like golf balls: "Y-y-you don't see it?"
"See what? Out with it, would ya?"
"That night in New Jersey, when the Admiral paid a visit? Swear on my name, if this ain't their hairdo, I'll—"
"Are you friggin' kidding me? For God's sake, I never got to bury the body."
"I'm sorry, I really am, but who else wears that style that you know of? I know I won't forget, for that cold hand over my throat."
"All this time I'd hang my cape"—she'd clutch the air—"and of all things to be pulled back in… Just get out, it's getting late."
"You don't think it's—"
"I said GET OUT!"
Rush of aching and anger to scurry him for those windy streets, before she cracked open a beer, kicked off her boots, and settled in for some TV instead.
"How would that insensitive idiot like it, to be told his family's alive when he knows the truth?"
Spirits still bitter when she went to bed soon after, especially to admit to challenges of old convictions. Between deifying her, sprinkles of familiar moves, and declarations of being back, the impossible would invade her head regarding that stranger.
"Never buried the body, but couldn't go back to confirm either… Could it be, for all to happen since?"
As little seeds of hope were planted, she would drift off to sleep dreaming of reunion, unaware that such plans weren't to be a fairy-tale at all.